


A Day in the Life of a Second Son

by Makalaure



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Drama, Dysfunctional Family, Dysfunctional Relationships, Family, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 21:10:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3784387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Makalaure/pseuds/Makalaure
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maglor is used to being something of a punching bag by now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Day in the Life of a Second Son

Disclaimer: I do not own _The Silmarillion_.

Warning: Moderate violence.

A Day in the Life of a Second Son

Maglor doesn't see the punch coming.

He's sprawled on the grimed slate floor, holding his cheek, before he realises that his guest is the culprit. He can't say he's surprised; inviting his cousin for a cup of tea could not have ended any other way.

Fingon stands tall above him, eyes narrowed and fist raised, mouth pressed in a grim line. Behind him, the door to Maglor's chamber is still wide open. "I've wanted to do that for a long time."

There is a silence. Maglor runs his tongue around his mouth. No loose teeth, but there is the familiar, coppery tang of blood.

He gets to his knees, a little unsteadily, and stands up. The pale morning sunlight streams in through the latticed window and paints two lines across his cousin's face. From outside comes the faint twittering of sparrows and the incessant _clank, clank_ of construction work. "You can do more, if you like," he says in a calm voice. It would still be less than he deserves.

Fingon sucks in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring. He raises his fist again, and Maglor knows the next blow will break his jaw.

It doesn't come.

Maedhros grasps their cousin's fist in his hand. Fingon turns his head, brow creased and lips pursed. "Nelyo?" His voice is soft like dark honey now.

Maedhros twists his mouth into a deep, bitter frown, and he backhands Fingon across the face. The sharp sound of the slap resounds in the mostly bare, large chamber. For a few moments no one says anything, and Maglor feels odd, as if he is floating in a dream. Fingon's eyes are wide; his left cheek is a raw, blotchy pink.

"Understand this," says Maedhros, appearing unmoved. "You do not get to touch a hair on my brother's head. Only I am allowed to do that. I can break his bones if I want. For I am the one who has suffered because of his decisions; not you."

Fingon blanches, opens his mouth and closes it. He looks, by turn, shocked, angry, and finally, ashamed. He draws a shaky breath and then strides out of the room, head held high, and does not shut the door behind him. Maedhros looks after him with a strange expression.

Maglor touches his cheek again with his index finger and winces. There will be a fantastic indigo bruise there soon; he'll get some stares. "You've already broken my bones," he says. Two ribs, to be precise, a couple of months ago, when Maglor had yet again told Maedhros not to forgive him.

His brother turns to him, still with that poker face. Always a poker face, nowadays. Poker face and hair scraped back and black clothes covering every inch of his skin to his jaw. Maglor doesn't see a point; the clothes don't cover the thin scars on his face or the strange light in his eyes.

"Why don't you tell me something I don't know?" Maedhros looks out the window to check the time. "I'll see you at breakfast," he says, and leaves.

It doesn't matter that he shut the door, because it opens again almost immediately and a counsellor's head sticks in. "Lord Maglor? We need your opinion on some of the accounts. Could you come to the council chamber?" He hesitates, gaze falling on Maglor's cheek; it must look worse than Maglor previously thought. The fellow's lips purse; he'd probably seen Maedhros leave the room.

Maglor flashes a smile like he's just been invited to an evening of music and storytelling, making him stutter. "Give me a few moments, please."  
  
The counsellor nods and scurries out.

In the next few moments Maglor tidies his hair and pulls on his fitted leather boots, which are by the bed, as always. He picks up his small mirror from his table, examines his face, and tuts. The bruise is understandable – it is out of his control – but those dark circles are awful. Still, he can't do anything about them now.

He puts down the mirror and squares his shoulders. "Well, it's another day," he says.

_-finis-_

Notes:

Nelyo - Maedhros


End file.
